Tea, Scones, and Rum
by Flamingo Feathers
Summary: Will's proper English relatives come to the Caribbean for his wedding, and chaos ensues as a madman mistakes Will's cousin for Elizabeth and Will attempts to explain "good" piracy to his uncle.


**Author's Note: **This story may seem a bit familiar to some of you - I had it up in the early fall before I decided I didn't like it and took it down for remodeling. _Much_ remodeling. Enjoy!

Many thanks to Araeph, my beta-reader.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the Pirates of the Caribbean characters. I do own Caroline, Jameson, Margaret, Victoria, and the rest of the Turners who are _not_ Will or Elizabeth.****

Chapter One: A Letter 

It had been raining for exactly three months now. She knew because she had marked it on her calendar, in the absence of another way to occupy her time.

Caroline Channing lay spread-eagled on the large four-poster bed, listening to the rain pounding on her beautiful turreted roof. She wondered if the sun was shining somewhere else, spitefully ignoring her plight. She highly doubted this at the moment. What did the sun look like again?

Her musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was a very official and pompous-sounding knock, accompanied by an equally official and pompous-sounding voice.

"Tea, Miss Channing?

Caroline rolled her eyes and sat up, attempting to smooth her rumpled dress. "No thank you, Jameson.

"I really must insist, Miss Channing." And with that, the butler pushed open the double doors. He placed the tea tray on a small table (Caroline had a certain fondness for superfluous furniture), and removed from it an envelope. "A letter for you.

The butler marched out, taking care to shut the doors without making a noise. His employer sat on the bed, listening to the brisk footsteps echoing sharply in the great empty house.

She then turned to the table. A letter! Caroline had not gotten one of _those_ ever since it had begun to rain.

She turned the envelope over and over in her hands, running her fingers across the blank space where one usually found a return address. The thick stained yellow envelope paper looked like it had been through high water at least, if not quite Hell. Wishing to savor the experience of receiving correspondence, she walked slowly over to the writing desk, where she kept among other things her letter opener. But she did not pluck it from its drawer right away, instead raising the letter to her face and inhaling.

It smelled chiefly of the sea, and of rain and dirt, but underneath there was a hint of something else _sunshine. _Not from anyone in her immediate area, then. She flipped the envelope over, and was gratified to see a smear of soot across the flap. A bright suspicion formed in her mind.

Eagerly, she left the letter opener in its drawer, ripped the sooty envelope open and proceeded to read without sitting down.

_Dear Caroline,_

She knew that handwriting. It _was_ from Will! She hadn't heard from him since spring. She happily continued to read.

_How have you been faring in England? We have been..._(here there were several crossed-out words)_...busy here in the Caribbean. Apologies for not writing to you this summer._

_The weather here has been awful - _

Caroline smiled, glad that Will could sympathize with her rain-induced depression.

_- sunny and hot every day. Ladies have been fainting all over Port Royal from the heat. What we wouldn't give for some rain! _

She ground her teeth.

_And how is the rest of the family? Has Mabel improved? Is Victoria any closer to a marriage proposal? I remember you writing me something about a Mr. Roberts in May. I long ago gave up hope on _you_ finding a man. However, I have found myself a lady. _

Gasping in astonishment, she dropped the letter as if it had burned her hand. Had she read correctly? Bending, she gingerly picked it up and scanned the following lines.

_Yes, you read correctly. A lovely woman of high social standing is she, to be sure. We plan to marry in November, when the heat will hopefully have died down._

Will was getting married! That bit of news was enough to startle her out of her rainy stupor.

_And, of course, this will allow you and the rest of the family time for the long ship crossing. That is, if you're willing to come. Please ask the Turners for me. I'm no good at formal invitations._

Not bothering to read the rest, she collapsed again on the bed, resuming her former supine position. How like Will, to wriggle out of informing the rest of the family. How would she break the news to George and Margaret?

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Two days later, the rain had lightened to a soft drizzle, although there was still no sign of it stopping completely. Caroline sat nervously on her sofa, fiddling with the voluminous folds of her dress. Every so often she scampered out into the hall to scrutinize the huge grandfather clock that guarded the entrance to the parlor, counting down the minutes until teatime.

The clock had been in her family for at least four generations; gathering dust in its place of honor in the front hall. It was handsome and stately, not beautiful and delicate and ornate as many highly prized works of artisans then were. Even as a little girl, Caroline had always admired the clock for that. No fripperies or scrollwork, only austere deep mahogany boards jointed together in such a way that the whole piece seemed carved directly out of one enormous tree trunk. She knew for a fact that a family of mice thrived behind and under it, but she never quite had the heart to order their removal.

Besides, the mice always stayed well out of Margaret's sight. Caroline reflected that they were more intelligent than she in that respect.

_They should be here by now, _she thought. Waiting always made her hungry, and she rang for the maid to bring the scones out early. When they arrived, she nibbled one anxiously, reflecting that she should have had some tea as well to combat the dry scone.

"Miss Channing? They're here."

She jumped and coughed, spraying scone crumbs all over the table and tray. With a muttered oath, she did her best to sweep the crumbs onto the floor and out of sight, hoping that Margaret wouldn't notice. Smoothing her hair and dress, she prepared to meet her relatives.

Apologies for the shortness of the chapter. Next one will be longer, I promise!

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ConCrit would be lovely. Mindless praise is all well and good, but it does not help one grow as a writer. Oh, and all flames _must_ be obscene enough to provide sufficient MST fodder.


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